The Subservience of Motherhood.

I wake up in the morning and the minute I open my eyes, before I’m even fully conscious I am mummy.

There are little people talking to me. Making demands of me – once I had my eyes physically prized open by the older one.

I go to the toilet and they are there, talking to me – there’s a ‘chatting stool’ in the bathroom.

I have a shower and they are there, talking to me – sometimes I have toys thrown at me too.

They don’t understand that I’m tired because the little broken sleep the baby allowed me wasn’t nearly enough. My eyes are stinging and my words are slurred like a drunkard – without enjoying the fun, partying, getting pissed up bit.

They don’t understand that I’m struggling to keep with the laundry for four people whilst working and having the washing line out of action now as it’s raining all the fucking time.

They don’t see my struggle to keep the floor clean with four people and two immortal twatting cats living here, so the baby doesn’t turn black from crawling across the room or get ill from licking the floor (which she does regularly).

The struggle to make ends meet that me and their dad are secretly dealing with after a year on Statutory Maternity Pay.

I’m tired. I’m tired of being skint. Tired of everything being broken. Tired of trying to please everyone (and failing) and most of all I’m tired of being tired.

I’m tired of feeling guilty for feeling like this. Guilty for wanting touch free time where no one wants anything from me. Guilty for going to work and leaving the children. Guilty for enjoying it.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my life (most of the time). I love my children and I love their Dad.

I love the house being filled with laughter and silliness.

I’m not ungrateful.

On the good days it’s very good.

On the bad days it’s exhausting. Relentless.

Motherhood is hard.

I keep reminding myself that there is far more good than there is bad and that I am so lucky to have these people in my life.